


Something Sweeter

by FalliciousPuns



Series: Fiedler's Llamas [6]
Category: The Spy Who Came in from the Cold - John Le Carré
Genre: "literary", Hands, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 13:49:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11487669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalliciousPuns/pseuds/FalliciousPuns
Summary: A detailed analysis of Jens Fiedler's hands, as performed by Alec Leamas.





	Something Sweeter

Fiedler’s hands were delicate, puppet-like things.  Sometimes, when he thought Alec wouldn't notice, there would be a manic twitch to them, a click-ick double tap of a clear nail against the side of his chair while trying to remember something, or a swift clench-unclench of the long fingers behind his back when something displeased him.  

Then sometimes, when he noticed Leamas’ entranced stare he would lace his fingers or play with his face, directing Alec’s gaze like a magician’s sleight of hand, to his lips, his throat, his eyes, his lashes, his small curl of hair that fell next to his ear.

Don't look at these, he seemed to be saying, look at something sweeter, something I can sweeten for you.

The hands acted as a second pair of eyes.  Climbing a staircase, Fiedler’s hand slid up the balustrade, fingers lingering on the end-of-railing carvings, as if they were still tasting the wood grain.  The fingers would curl cautiously around any object, feeling cups, bowls, bedframes all over like a blind man.

They told as much as any eye as well.  Fiedler would gather material in between his fingers, curtains and sheets in jagged panicked folds; he would fold clothing with his entire hand, palm pressed peacefully against the homely warm laundry.  

Eventually only a telltale bite of the hand could make Alec fearful.  Only in the great tragedies does the hero tear out their eyes.

And Fiedler would notice that too.  Don't look at these, the pale hands said, moving to twist a lock of soft hair between two fingers, look at something sweeter, something I can sweeten for you.

No one knew the back of Fiedler’s hand better that Leamas.  When the man was writing at the desk in the living room by lamplight, the countless books around him fading into midnight, Leamas would watch from the sofa as Fiedler’s own act of writing itself became poetry.

Sometimes there would be well defined veins running like streams down his hand, making Fiedler seem the perfect intellectual, hand well worn but well cared for.  Maybe they would be even more prominent, and Fiedler would write slowly, carefully penning his intentions in an official document with a heavy hand.  He would sometimes scribble quickly, hand loose and free.  Alec could only dream of what would make him write like that, as if he were spilling himself happily out in black blood.

Leamas wanted a hand to himself, to feel out all the soft ridges of the veins, to feel how each knuckle connected to the rest, to draw a careful finger up Fiedler’s lifeline, to see if he would smile if Alec pressed gently on the tips of his fingers. 

Sometimes Fiedler’s hands were like fire, possessed of an ever changing movement.  Other times they were the purposeful, slow, dangerous, glacier waltz of ice.

He had hands that might have played the piano once.  Alec could only suppose.  After all, Fiedler’s hands were so strong, so delicate, and could play him so well.

Alec would find himself in Fiedler’s all consuming hold, Fiedler’s fingers sliding through his hair, teasing up and down the back of Alec’s neck and into the warm places behind his ears like such a lovely parasite.  The fingers would curl and flex over his face, sliding quietly over his closed eyelids, feel their way through the maze of his ear, over his nose, would try and prise Leamas’ lips open with two fingers, as if he were searching for a way to reach his mind.

As if he hadn't invaded Alec Leamas’ every thought.

Some people wear their heart on their sleeve, some wear it front and center like a prized medal, and some, Leamas realized, some held their hearts in the palms of their hands, their fingers pulsing heartbeats to keep themselves alive.

Don't look at these, look at something sweeter, something I can sweeten for you.

 

**Author's Note:**

> full analysis due next class  
> i want the essays printed and on my desk before the bell rings


End file.
